


The Name of the Garden

by isaDanCurtisproduction



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, One Shot, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21912370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaDanCurtisproduction/pseuds/isaDanCurtisproduction
Summary: It's after the Apocalypse-that-Wasn't. Aziraphale and Crowley live in a cottage in the South Downs. They love their cottage, they love the quaint local eateries (barring the unfortunate lack of sushi places), and they love having the free time to enjoy themselves and their time together, but really the heart of their new home is the lush, winding garden. Crowley can put the fear of himself into all of the flowers and shrubs until they grow hale and healthy, and Aziraphale is quite content to read, sitting on a worn wooden bench amongst the surrounding greenery.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 76





	The Name of the Garden

**Author's Note:**

> A quick little one-shot I had rattling around in my head since the Ineffable Bois stole all my muses

Aziraphale and Crowley built their house with their own two hands. 

Four hands, actually, between the two of them.

Four metaphorical and/or metaphysical, respectively occult and ethereal hands.

And perhaps built wasn’t really the right word either. After the events of the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Crowley and Aziraphale both found life in London a little too busy. They wanted to take it slow, at least for a little while.

It wasn’t as if Aziraphale sold his bookshop (he would never), and Crowley left his flat just the way he liked it (and it would stay that way, exactly the same, as long as he kept expecting it to do so), but both of them agreed that they might benefit from a little mini-retirement (they deserved it after the stress that was the lead up to— and the fall out of— the Apoca-No), and so they built themselves a house in a remote area of a quaint town near Devil’s Dyke in the South Downs, West Sussex.

Aziraphale hadn’t checked specifically _where_. Crowley had been the one driving (Crowley was always the one driving), so he hadn’t, technically, really needed to know the specifics. Geography was, in practical terms, fairly immaterial to him. He was sure the cuisine in town would be delightfully quaint, and only hoped he’d be able to find a nice sushi place in the general vicinity.

(He had not been able to, to his great consternation. But London was only a hope, a wish, and a miracle away, after all, so he tried not to complain about it _too_ often.)

Crowley also wouldn’t, if asked directly, be able to tell you _exactly_ where their cottage was. He’d wanted someplace just for them, and he’d driven there, but honestly, he had no more idea where it was or what was nearby than his Bentley did. Of course, it was also doubtful he’d give you a straight answer if you _were_ to ask directly, even if he did know the answer, and since no one _had_ asked (and why would they?), the geographical location of their cottage was inconsequential, and had never even crossed either of their minds.

The cottage itself, when they first came upon it, nestled in the curve of the road, half-hidden by a stone wall and thick foliage, was perfect. Perfect just for them, with a thatch roof and wide front windows and a rolling garden that glowed in chlorophyll happiness beneath the yellow sun.

The cottage had not, in fact, been there before they’d arrived at it—neither had the dirt drive or the signpost just outside it that said simply _The Cottage_ —and in that way they’d built it. They’d built it out of their wants and needs, their desire for a joint happiness, their post-armagedidn’t euphoria.

More could be said about the cottage, about the nearly endless bookshelves that seemed to pop up around every corner in the downstairs living area, coming pre-dusty and stacked with first editions and folios that Aziraphale blinked at happily, with a certain amount of reverence every time he saw them, or the stone paper weight depicting an athletic-looking angelic figure wrestling a snake, whose twin was back at Crowley’s flat in London, so much bigger than this tiny reminder. It could be mentioned that the dining room table was a shabby oak thing that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a jumble sale, and that the chairs to go with it were red velvet upholstered, high, wing-backed chairs that seemed more ominous than comfortable, or that unlike the rest of the quaint style country cottage, the kitchen was immaculately modern, with smooth grey countertops, a flat-top stove, and stainless steel refrigerator, and that nothing in the entire building was plugged into anything else.

But as much as the home was irrevocably and undeniably theirs, from the antique globe to the sketch of the Mona Lisa, from the abundance of black sunglasses scattered around the house, hidden in spare drawers and in the bottom of the knitting basket behind the sofa, to the strain of tartan in every throw pillow that entered the house (no matter how often Crowley tried to change them to something chic or at least solid coloured), the garden that bloomed on the side of the house was the _heart_ of their home.

Every house plant in Crowley’s flat had been transposed (in a milli-second long demonic miracle that left every one of them terrified and confused) into the garden where they were all, each and every one of them, told _exactly_ what would happen to them if they didn’t do just as well if not _better_ out here than they ever did in the stuffy and expensive flat back in London. And all the spaces in between (because much to Crowley’s chagrin, his previous indoor garden was much smaller than this one, and the number of plants were not sufficient to completely fill the garden of their cottage) were filled with bits and bobs of plants that Crowley picked up at botanical shows, or horticulturist meet-up, or merely found growing wild on the sides of various and sundry country lanes. 

The garden did not look professional or well-manicured. It was full of ficuses, wild flowers, weeds, and shrubs, but all of them to a one were luscious and beautiful and frankly, quite terrified. But the whole garden was _alive_ and _chaotic_ , and Crowley could spend all morning in the dirt, threatening his plants and introducing new flowers and shrubbery that caught his fancy, and be immensely pleased to do so.

A bench was set up against one of the impossibly skinny paths through the garden, made of driftwood and brass, and it was the only place in all of England upon which the sun shone at a continuously optimal angle for the longest period of reading time possible through most of the day, and Aziraphale would come out with Crowley in the morning, shuffling behind him, carrying a tea service on an ornate tray and a book, and would plant himself on that bench and stay there until Crowley was done, hours and hours later, with threatening bodily harm to his plants, trimming and weeding and cutting and scaring, and then he’d pick up his trey and book and lead Crowley back through the garden’s winding path into their home, where they’d have a late lunch, or perhaps go out to lunch, or perhaps work up an appetite for lunch in either the only bed in the cottage, or not in the only bed in the cottage.

Sometimes Aziraphale read aloud while Crowley worked, which Crowley complained about loudly, stating, quite truthfully, that it was hard to properly put the fear of Crowley into his Orchids and Gentian with Aziraphale talking so sweetly and softly to him. Gave him the wrong kind of reputation.

But as much as he complained, (again, loudly), he never told Aziraphale to stop.

And sometimes Crowley interrupted Aziaraphale’s narration with a point or complaint or idea, and they ended up chatting in ever-widening tangents while Crowley worked.

“I think it deserves a name,” Aziraphale said one day, a non-sequitur to be sure, since what they’d just been discussing was the inherent good-ness or not-so-good-ness of some musicians or others, and why people like Schubert and Bach had ended up in Hell, but Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix were Heaven’s. And no one, angel or demon, could quite seem to find The Notorious B.I.G. so they weren’t quite sure where _he’d_ ended up. This conversation had itself stemmed from another conversation on waflles, Belgian and otherwise, which had started when Crowley had interrupted Aziraphale’s reading aloud of Murder on the Orient Express (fashionably chic and modern, Aziraphale had said quite proudly as he’d sat down on his bench with a wiggle and opened the old, soft, leather-bound copy) to quite loudly spoil the twist of the book, a twist that Aziraphale had not guessed. And he wasn’t much pleased to have the ending spoiled, but, unfortunately, Crowley was correct, and the book _had_ been around for 85 years by this point.

“You think what deserves a name?” Crowley asked, looking up only slightly from the perennial he was crouched over (which would, if he had anything to say about it, keep blooming for the next several decades if not longer).

“The garden,” Aziraphale said, and finally put down the book. He’d kept it open on his lap as they’d chatted, first fully open, and then bookmarked by just a finger, but now he placed a bookmark between the pages (a little sliver of paper and ink whose new existence was a very minor miracle, but who was counting?) and placed it beside him on the bench, between him and the silver service tea tray that had a similar counterpart in the AZ Fell & Co. Book Shop in Soho.

Crowley blinked at Aziraphale from behind his ever-present sunglasses. “You want to name the _garden_ ,” he said with a scoff.

But Aziraphale would not be put off. “Yes,” he said cheerily. “Don’t you think it deserves one?”

“We’re not becoming _those_ people,” Crowley said. “I may be an immortal being, but I’m not old enough to go around naming every plot of land I own like someone’s nostalgic grandfather. I’ll leave the retirees to that, thank you very much.”

“We _are_ retired, my dear,” Aziraphale reminded Crowley kindly.

Crowley hissed and raked a finger through the dirt around the base of the perennial. The flowers trembled.

Aziraphale blinked down at Crowley with his perpetually sunny smile lighting up his face.

“Fine, Angel,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “What do you propose we name this little square of greenery you call a garden.”

“It _is_ a garden,” Aziraphale said, “quite a large one actually. I believe Mr. Hearston is jealous of it. He slows as he drives past and I saw him distributing a new kind of fertilizer around his _own_ garden last week.”

“His garden’s shit,” Crowley said, pretending like he wasn’t preening under the praise.

“Of course it is,” Aziraphale patronized. “And I quite like this little slice of paradise myself.”

Crowley tried even _harder_ to hide how pleased he was, and failed even more miserably. Aziraphale could almost see an entire corner of Crowley’s mouth upturned in a half smile.

“So it deserves a name,” Aziraphale concluded.

“So you’ve said,” Crowley agreed in a snappish tone that belied his crooked smile. “ _What_ name?”

“Well I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “I think that’s rather something we should think up together.”

Crowley nodded his ascent.

“What does one name a garden?” Crowley asked, scratching at his chin, and leaving a smudge of dirt that Aziraphale thought rather enticing in a silly sort of way. “I suppose there’s always Kensington, or Jubilee,” he said thoughtfully.

It was Aziraphale’s turn to scoff. “We’re not naming our garden after a garden in London.”

Crowley grinned at him, his smile wide and mischievous. “How about Kew, then? I think I rather like the sound of that.”

“Crowley please,” Aziraphale said, “be serious.”

“When have I ever been anything but?” Crowley asked in faux-innocence. “Mottistone?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I was thinking something more personal than that.”

“Soho Square Garden?” Crowley offered.

“Oh you snake,” Aziraphale scolded softly. 

Crowley sighed, with his smirk still curling at the edges of his lips, unable to completely erase it, or his little joy, from his expression. “Fine then, Angel. What do _you_ propose?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, playing with the golden winged ring on his pinky, spinning it ‘round and ‘round. “Perhaps after the place where we first met. Eden.” He beamed. “Doesn’t that just have a ring to it?”

“Absolutely not,” Crowley said. “I refuse.”

Aziraphale pouted.

“ _No_ ,” Crowley said, “and you can’t change my mind! I’m not having _my_ garden—”

“Our garden,” Aziraphale corrected.  
“You can call it your garden if you agree to weed the rampion. No? Well then since I do all the work around here it’s _my_ garden and I refuse to name _my_ garden after Her little experiment gone wrong. She and I have not been on speaking terms for a _long_ time, and I don’t need a reminder of Her every time I come outside.”  
“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked. “Even ignoring that Eden was created by Her—which, so was everything else by the way—I think it’d be quite nice to name our little slice of paradise after the place you and I first met.”

“Then it’d be more accurate—and I’d like it a great deal more too—to name it Eastern Gate or some nonsense.”

Aziraphale lit up.

“No!” Crowley snapped, quick to course-correct. “We’re not naming our garden the Eastern Gate.”

“I _do_ like that,” Aziraphale said.

“Well tough,” Crowley said. “Not happening.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Then how about Gethsemane?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Why would you want something so… biblical?”

“Well, we ourselves are biblical, technically,” Aziraphale said.

“You don’t actually like that at all, do you?” Crowley stated, more than asked. 

“I _did_ quite like Gethsemane. Wonderful olives. Quite delicious. Used to go and pick them right off the branch myself.” He gave a satisfied little hum at the memory, and then paused, becoming more dour. “Then there was the whole arresting business. That poor Jesus fellow, you remember? Gethsemane never felt quite the same after that.”

“Do I remember Jesus,” Crowley muttered to himself, but loud enough for Aziraphale to hear him. “Only watched the bloke get _crucified_. No, never heard of him, don’t remember any human lauded as the son of God and murdered for wanting people to just be _nice_ to each other. What was that? _Yeshua_? No recollection. Sorry, don’t come back and try again later.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chided lightly.

“Angel,” Crowley said and then let out an explosive sigh. “If you’re so determined to name this garden something, why not just name it _anything_? Why does it have to _mean_ something? Why can’t it just be, I don’t know,” he looked around himself, “the _Green Garden_ , or _Ficus Garden_ , or _Crowley and Aziraphale’s Garden_? Why not the _Orchid and Rampion Garden_ , or the _Wild Flower Garden_? Why not _The Cottage Garden_?”

There was silence for a moment. Not true silence because there can never be true silence in a garden. There was the sound of wind rustling through the leaves, insects and spiders and rodents and voles (who were all quite aware that they were welcome here as long as they did not do any _damage_ ) crawling along the ground, shuffling dirt and rocks in their wake. Bees buzzed and birds sang. They could hear the faraway sound of a dog barking, a motor on a far off road, the very distant sound of waves hitting stone. 

But between them there was silence, comfortable and companionable, and Crowley dug his fingers into the soft dirt, reveling in the coolness of the earth and the warmth of the sun on the top of his head.

Aziraphale took a sip from his tea cup which had sat long forgotten upon the silver tray on the bench beside him, but did not find it to be anything other than the perfect temperature.

“I want it to be special,” Aziraphale said after another long sip, and after wrapping his hands around his mug in a motion that was often used by those in cold climes to warm their fingers, and was unnecessary under the balmy noon-day sun this time of year. Perhaps it was working to warm him in a sense other than physical. “I want it to _mean_ something. To us.”

Crowley let that idea circulate in his head for a moment. He pulled his soil-covered, perfectly manicured fingers from the earth and flicked his fingers to remove the worst of the dirt from his long digits. If some of the dirt happened to land on Aziraphale’s pristine pant leg, Crowley pretended not to notice.

With a sigh, Aziraphale miracled his trousers once more spotless.

“Well,” Crowley said slowly, “if you want the name of this garden to mean something, I think you’re looking too far back. Yes we met in Eden, but that meeting was nothing compared to what we just went through, what with the antichrist and the end times and the four horse persons of the apocalypse and so on. I mean, not that this hasn’t been a fun 6000 years from the beginning, but we only really started being on our _own_ side,” he gestured around them, “when Armageddon got underway.”

“Tadfield?” Aziraphale offered. “The Lower Tadfield Garden? The Garden of Tadfield?”

“Megiddo,” Crowley countered with a snicker.

“I believe those were the _plains_ of Megiddo,” Aziraphale said, prim, proper, and teasing, the bastard, “not a Garden at all.”

“Shut up,” Crowley said though there was no heat in his voice, only warmth, and maybe a hint of endearment. “At this rate, I'm just going to name it after the Bentley and that’ll be that.”

“Oh don’t be such a sourpuss,” Aziraphale said. “If you’re really attached to naming our happy little plot of land _The Garden of Megiddo_ who am I to stop you?”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and suddenly above the bench there was an arched trellis, crawling with vines, with a wooden sign hanging in the middle that said, in flowery cursive, ‘ _The Garden of Megiddo_.’

Crowley groaned—a long, loud, dramatic sound, and flopped backwards onto the dirt, magically avoiding crushing any of the plants around him, except for a sprig of basil that wasn’t growing quite right, and whom Crowley had had a loud talking to earlier. The nearby rosemary bush trembled slightly, and then very plantfully pulled itself together.

“No,” he whined, long and high-pitched. “Don’t name the bloody thing _Megiddo_! That’s idiotic.”

“Well you came up with it.”

“I’ll come up with something better,” Crowley said, and it sounded like a threat, or it sounded like a promise. “Let’s see, something recent, something about us saving the world—”

“Or at least failing to destroy it,” Aziraphale corrected.

Crowley made a noise of consideration. “I’m half tempted to name it after Agnes Nutter, in memoriam. In honor of her hand in keeping us from being completely destroyed, body and soul, by heaven and hell respectively.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, a happy noise that went along with the little wiggle he did in his seat. “I think I like that one.”

“I’ll mark it down for maybe,” Crowley said, slightly distracted by Aziraphale’s wiggle. He dragged himself up onto his elbows so he could look up at the Angel properly while still sprawling in the dirt. “In fact, I’d say it was a done deal,” he snapped his fingers, changing the sign hanging above Aziraphale’s head to say, _The Agnes Nutter, Witch, Memorial Garden_ , “except that I’m not much a fan of the name Agnes and ‘m not really keen on seeing it every day for the rest of forever.”

Aziraphale’s expression went a little soft and he repeated, “The rest of forever.”

Crowley turned his eyes away from Aziraphale, as if avoiding eye contact would hide the fact that his cheeks had turned a slight shade of pink at the angel’s tone.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I think I’m getting rather attached to the idea,” Aziraphale said, his voice normal once more, “What don’t you like about the name Agnes? I think it’s quite fashionable.”

“ _You would_.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Well we must come up with something,” he said.

“Must we?” Crowley asked, half making fun of Aziraphale. “I’m not the one who wanted a garden with a name in the _first_ place. I’m a demon—we don’t _name our gardens_.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “And demons having gardens, that’s a normal occurrence? Yes, of course, how could I forget. I hear Lord Beelzebub has the _prettiest_ garden, and Duke Hastur, why, I hear he grows prize-winning tomatoes in his. But you’re quite right, not a name in sight.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley, straightening from his sprawl slightly, and he blinked at Aziraphale from behind his shades before a wide smile curled his lips and his limbs returned to their prior looseness. “Alright, you got me. I’m not exactly a typical demon in this regard.”

“In _any_ regard,” Aziraphale said.

“Hey,” Crowley objected, “no need to be rude.” He pulled his legs beneath him and then bent and twisted into a standing position in a way that would have made a chiropractor, or any human medical professional really, wince, and possibly retire on the spot. 

His eyes were a constant reminder of his snake-like nature, but sometimes the lack of bones where perhaps there should have been bones in his human-shaped body were also reminiscent of his no-legged time in the Garden of Eden.

He dusted his rear end off with a few swipes of his hand, and then with a snap, miracled away any remaining dirt. “Well, I’m done with putting the fear of me into the plants, and the rampion can wait until tomorrow to be weeded.” He stuck his fingers (his whole hands wouldn’t fit) into the tight pockets of his black acid washed jeans, and leant backwards—no, further back than that. His spine was arched at an impossible angle, and his legs weren’t doing much to support the rest of his body’s position in the universe—and neither were his snakeskin boots, one of which wasn’t even fully touching the ground. “Can I tempt you—” here he smiled wickedly, “—to a spot of lunch? There’s a new italian place a few towns over whose chef can make a divine carbonara and whose maître d' is being investigated by interpol for truffle smuggling.”

“Oohh,” Aziraphale said, looking torn. “Well, smuggling is, er, not _good_ … but I _do_ so like a truffle. Do you remember Italy 1652?” He hummed—a happy little sound.

Crowley bobbled his head back and forth, minutely, in that way he did when he was pleased and trying to hide it. “Mnhh, yeah. Right, so, Italian truffles. Or, there’s that tea shop what opened up just down the road that you’ve been wanting to try.”

Aziraphale looked down at himself, fiddled with his shabby waistcoat. “I don’t know if I’m dressed for high tea.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, “with a snap of my finger, you can be dressed any way you like. Or a snap of _your_ finger. But also, it’s the twenty-first century. You don’t need to dress up to go to tea. We’re just going to be sipping oolong and eating tiny cucumber sandwiches without utensils. You don’t have to be fancy to do _that_.”

“It’d be proper if we did.”

“Eh,” Crowley said with a dismissive wave of his elbow, not removing either hand’s fingers from his pockets. “Let’s just _go_. If we get there and everyone’s wearing tails and cummerbunds and cravats and whatever we can use a miracle. Otherwise don’t worry about it. Or choose the Italian place. No dress code for Italian.”

Aziraphale got to his feet, successfully tempted, and then paused. “But what about the garden?”

“What _about_ the garden?” Crowley groaned.

“We haven’t thought up a name.” 

“We can think about it later,” Crowley said. “Let’s _go_ ,” and started walking away, moving like there were no bones in his hips at all, and maybe there weren’t, since he wasn’t actively thinking at the moment that he _should_ have bones there.

“But...” Aziraphale said, following Crowley but dragging his feet about it. 

“Ugh, just name it something, then! And we can change it later.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, semi-offended. “It’s important. We should put an effort into thinking something up. Not just naming it _anything_.”

Crowley tilted his head, and with a snap his fingers the sign that read _The Agnes Nutter, Witch, Memorial Garden_ now read _The Anything Garden_. He frowned at it and snapped again. _The Anything Garden_ became, just _Anything_.

“Oh you,” Aziraphale said, his voice two parts exasperated, one part fond. “Can we please decide on something before we leave?”

“But _lunch_ ,” Crowley wheedled.

“We don’t even need to eat,” Aziraphale said. “We’re ethereal beings. We could go literal eons without eating. Stop trying to distract me.”

“It usually works,” Crowley said. “You love food.”

“That’s not a good excuse.”

“And I keep telling you. I’m not ethereal. I’m occult.”

“Good god,” Aziraphale groaned.

“Is She?” Crowley asked, artificial innocence pasted on his face.

“A name, Crowely,” Aziraphale said, “ _focus_.”

“Why don’t _you_ come up with something? Why am I doing all the heavy lifting here?”

Aziraphale pulled at the bottom of his waistcoat, and with as much dignity as any Angel could possibly muster, said, “I can’t think of one.”

Crowley sighed in a very put upon matter, but nodded anyway. He was many things: demon, ex-angel, saviour of the world, mischievous and gloating, but the one thing he was _not_ , was able to say no to Aziraphale on just about anything.

It was his one character flaw, and frankly, he didn’t plan on correcting it any time soon.

“Fine. But I’m literally just going to keep saying things till you choose one, so you’d better lower your expectations. Places that have meaning to us? Alright. I already veto’d Eden and the Eastern Gate. Soho’s a lame name for a garden. London, likewise. The Bastille?”

“When I was almost discorporated?” Aziraphale sputtered. “I should think not!”

“Tetchy,” Crowley teased. “Noah’s ark? No. Golgotha? Double no.”

“Stop choosing places with negative memories,” Aziraphale said.

“Well, we tended to gravitate towards places that had bad happenings for most of history, you’ve got to admit. Especially around Mesopotamia and Palestine and the like, back in the early days. Rome was ok, I s’pose. But then I did succeed a little too well in tempting Caligula. Not that he needed any outside help.”

“Then don’t go back so far,” Aziraphale complained. “Happier memories! This is a _happy_ garden, and it needs a happy name.”

Crowley lowered his sunglasses just enough for him to give Aziraphale a look that said, ‘And when _exactly_ were the happy times?’

“What about when I was a knight of the round table?” Aziraphale asked. “I rather enjoyed that. For a time.”

“We were enemies then,” Crowley pointed out.

“We were enemies quite often,” Aziraphale countered. “But perhaps you’re right. At least since the arrangement then?”

“Oh sure,” Crowley said. “Still a ‘no’ on the Bastille?”

“Emphatically!”

“There’s still so much to choose from, I mean, Aziraphale, 6000 years is a long time.”

“What about the Globe Theatre then, we had such fun there. I mean, I know you didn’t much enjoy Hamlet, but remember we saw Much Ado About Nothing there, and Twelfth Night twice! Or, or, St. James’s Park. Why! We’ve spent so many long hours strolling and chatting on the lawn and the desire paths. Of course, it might be odd to name a garden after a park, but… what? What did you think of?”

What Aziraphale had finally noticed was that Crowley had gone stock still, staring at him with his sunglasses hanging off the tip of his nose, the lenses ready to slip off and plummet to the ground at any moment.

“Go back,” Crowley said, “say that again. What did you say?”

“About, St. James’s Park?” Aziraphale asked. “Lovely place, when you aren’t killing the ducks.”

“I didn’t _kill_ them, just… inconvenienced them,” Crowley objected, but then shook his head. “No, not the park.”

“The Globe Theatre?” Aziraphale asked, surprise in his tone. “I mean, I don’t object. I said it after all, but I was mostly throwing out ideas. I didn’t think you’d really want to name your garden after a theatre. _The_ Globe Theatre Garden,” he tried out. “ _The Globe Garden?_ ”

“No, no, no,” Crowley said. “Shut up and let me think. No. Not the _Globe_ Globe. Not the Globe. I was just thinking, Aziraphale, what’s the place we like best in the whole universe.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “I’d normally say my book shop without a moment’s hesitation, but,” he gestured to their home, “I have quite a fondness for this old place now.”

“No,” Crowley said, “that’s too narrow. Think bigger. If something happened to your book shop, or to this cottage--”

“God forbid,” Aziraphale said.

“--you’d find someplace else, _make_ someplace else. But where’s the _one_ place you’d never, and I mean _never_ agree to leave. And I, well, me too. What’s the one place neither of us would ever leave, not for a million dollars, not if they promised to reinstate my halo, not if I could have a _billion_ Bentley’s in exchange. What’s the _one_ place we love the most?”

Aziraphale’s eyes wandered, and then his brow creased in thought, and then he bit his lip.

It wasn’t coming to him.

“Not the _Globe_ ,” Crowley hinted, “but the…”

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, expression clearing. “Earth!”

Crowley’s expression turned soft. “Yes. The Earth. Our favorite place in the universe. Full of humans and traffic and reality telly and Sushi. Away from Angels and Demons, God and Satan. Where nothing is all good, or all evil, but most everything’s a violent and unchangeable mix of the two. The place where you can have your book shop, and I can have my Bentley, and we can have this cottage with this garden and _no one can stop us_.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said again, so much gentler this time, and the lines around his eyes creased as he smiled, wide and brighter than the sun. “Earth. _Garden Earth_. That’s—that’s perfect, Crowley.”

Crowley practically preened. “I thought so,” he said loud and boastful and his accompanying grin was wide and bright.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the sign hanging from the brand new trellis (whose vines would soon get used to Crowley’s gardening methods… or die trying), above Aziraphale’s bench, facing Crowley’s garden, changed.

 _Garden Earth_.

They both looked at it for a long, silent moment, and the silence was filled with all the normal sounds of a garden in silence: the shuffling of vermin, the droning of insects, and the quiet steady breathing of two humanoid male-presenting beings, neither of whom needed to breathe at all.

“So,” Crowley finally said, not quite able to look away from the little sign that he suddenly found himself quite adoring—a feeling he wasn’t likely to mention out loud. Ever. “Italian? Or high tea?”

“Let’s do tea,” Aziraphale said, equally unwilling to move his eyes from the sign.

 _Garden Earth_.

“Don’t want to dirty your palette with smuggled truffles?” Crowley teased.

“I just thought we should do something special to commemorate today,” Aziraphale said. “I’d have said the Ritz—”

“It does seem like a Ritz sort of day,” Crowley ceded.

“But it’s a bit far from us nowadays,” Aziraphale said. “And aren’t you always telling me to try new things?”

Crowley shrugged. “You won’t hear me complain.”

“Very well then, should we be off?” Aziraphale bounced a little on his feet, and turned towards the front of the house.

Crowley’s only answer was to start ambling once more off towards the drive where the Bentley could be seen, pristine and glimmering and parked blocking the path between the drive and the front door.

Aziraphale caught up with him, and threaded his arm through Crowley’s, and neither of them said anything aloud so it was unlikely that either realized they were both having the exact same thought at the exact same time.

That thought was simply that they found themselves oddly aware in that moment of how extremely and extraordinarily content they were to be here on this planet, at their cottage, in their garden, with one another.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first time writing Good Omens fic, and I hope I did ok  
> I'm not British, so any faults based on my lack of knowledge therein, I apologize for. If you let me know I made a blunder I'm likely to change it  
> And thank you so much for reading!


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